Henry turned from the window. “Dunn?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Who is moving along the beach?”
Dunn approached behind him. “I believe Miss Woodhart mentioned something about viewing the wreckage. I am certain she will make her way back before dark, my lord.”
“I am not so certain.” Henry started from the room. “She did not possess such foresight last time.”
His steward followed. “You are going after her, my lord?”
“Yes.”
“I could just as easily send a servant. I fear you have not regained all of your strength, and to make such a walk could prove to be strenuous.”
Henry hesitated. Why shouldn’t he send a servant? If Selina Tilbury were down there, he doubtless would.
But she’s not Selina Tilbury, and she’s not Lucy, and she’s not my mother. He grabbed his hat on the way out. “No, Dunn, I shall go after her myself.”
Ella’s foot nudged something in the sand, a fragment of wood. Can this be proof? She lifted it, hesitated, then hurled it into the water. Supposedly the water a Creator had breathed into existence. Oh God. How senseless to pray to Someone she didn’t even believe in.
If you have not seen proof of Him, I daresay you have never really looked. His words again. If only she could forget them. They lingered in her dreams, accompanied by the haunting image of Peter whispering his prayers.
Ella kicked at the sand. She shouldn’t have come. Once, the beach had been beautiful. There had been something special about the view, the sand, the water.
But the storm had tainted the beauty, and the scent of death still choked the air. How could God let that happen?
A movement diverted her attention. She squinted. Lord Sedgewick?
He approached along the beach, the evening sun playing in the dark waves of his hair. He stopped close enough that she breathed in his scent. “Taking a stroll, Miss Woodhart?”
Warmth pulsated her heart. She hardly knew why. He was the cause of her torment, her plagued dreams, her new questions. Why had he done this to her? Couldn’t he more easily have left her alone?
“You do not appear well.”
“Nor you.” She raised her eyes to him. “Is there not anyone who can confine you to bed?”
“Not when other duties need attending.”
“Such as calling upon your most recent guest?”
“Yes, I am afraid that is a duty, indeed.” Did she imagine the disgust in his tone?
“And is chasing the governess out of doors also among your duties, my lord?”
“No.” Softness crept into his gaze. “No, such a task as that could only be accounted as a pleasure.”
Pleasure? Her warmth dissipated into unhappiness. He should not say such things, not to her. He should not try to make her care for him. He should not try to persuade her of his faith. He should not be here now, alone with his son’s governess.
“Miss Woodhart—”
“I found something.” She stepped away and reached for a small comb she had found in the sand earlier. She thrust it at him. “Miss Tilbury’s, no doubt.”
He grasped the item, but his fingers slid across hers.
“It is quite a lovely piece. I used to wear one most similar in my hair, but it was of a different color and—”
“Miss Woodhart.” Stepping closer, he dropped the comb. “Whatever is troubling you?”
“Nothing.”
“Perhaps you should not have returned so soon. The storm was most horrific and with the wreckage still here, there is little doubt why you should be disturbed—”
“It is not the storm, Lord Sedgewick.” She drew in air. “It is you.”
Dark brows lowered, but he didn’t glower, only stared. “The Bible offended you.”
“Not offended, my lord.”
“You read passages?”
“Only some.” Tears edged up her throat. “Only enough to plague me further than your words already have.”
“I fear I can offer you no comfort.”
“Then offer me proof.”
He scanned the sea, the cliffside, then returned to her gaze. “You are standing upon it, Miss Woodhart.”
“I can believe that God created the world,” she whispered, “but how can I believe He is the author of such dreadful circumstances?”
“I cannot convince you, Miss Woodhart, nor can I make you believe.” The evening shadows deepened around them. “I can only testify of Him. I am afraid the rest is something you must discover yourself.”
Henry sat at the head of the breakfast table and cut a morsel of roasted fowl in half. The meaty scent intensified. His favorite course—and the major’s daughter was ruining it for him. Did she never stop chattering?
“And the sugar sculptures were magnificent and most delicious,” said Miss Tilbury. “They replicated the Regent’s most impressive garden, if you can even imagine such a thing.”
“No. I cannot.”
“Of course, I inquired as to who had created such masterpieces. Her Grace introduced me to the confectioner himself. A quite charming Frenchman by the name of Benoit Lachapelle. He even expounded on his impressive carving tools and molds.”
Miss Woodhart, who had remained silent throughout the course of the meal, glanced up with a wry smile. “Charming, I’m sure.”
Miss Tilbury must not have caught the sardonic tone because she rambled on with great detail of her most recent painting. “Which has won the admiration of nearly everyone to which I’ve presented it.” She straightened her citrine pendant. “Even Lord Worthington remarked on how exquisitely I captured the contrast between the setting sun and the evening twilight.”
Henry lowered his fork at her brief pause. “I occupy no doubts but that your painting is remarkable, Miss Tilbury. I am certain you shall have ample chance to paint a new masterpiece to present to the earl.”
“Painting requires a good deal of time,” she said. “Time I should rather spend on matters of greater importance.”
“Of course. You may do whatever you wish.” Henry leaned forward in his chair. “You must excuse my absence, however, for business takes me away today.”
Miss Woodhart’s face snapped up at the words.
Even Peter paused and frowned.
“Business? What sort of business could call you away when you have a visitor?” Miss Tilbury reached across the table and pressed her hand atop his before he was prepared to withdraw.
He slipped from her touch. “Nothing of great importance, but something I must see to nonetheless.” He stood. “My deep regrets, Miss Tilbury.”
“Regrets cannot balm my disappointment.” A demure smile formed. “But rest assured, I shall not return home until you are first back at Wyckhorn.”
Henry paused at his son’s chair and laid his hand upon the little boy’s shoulder. “Do finish your breakfast, Peter, and try to be diligent in Miss Woodhart’s lessons.”
“Will you be gone a long time?”
“No, Son.” Henry rubbed his soft hair. “I shall be home within the week.” His son smiled and offered a goodbye, and Henry was forced to pass the chair that stirred great mayhem within his chest. “Goodbye, Miss Woodhart.”
Her neck craned to look up at him. “Do take great care in your travels,” she murmured.
“And do try to make haste.” This came from Miss Tilbury, who exited a sigh soft enough to be within the bounds of polite behavior, yet loud enough to be noticed. “I shall be quite bored and dejected without you here to entertain me, my lord.”
Henry made a slight bow in response and hurriedly quit the room. At least for a few days, he would be without Miss Tilbury and her incessant prattles.
He would be without Miss Woodhart too. Away from her accusations, her untamed tongue, her negligence in keeping with society’s rules. Why did those things mean nothing to him?
Indeed, he would almost miss them in his few days away.
He would almost miss her.
“I am leaving.”
“You cannot be blamed. I would leave too were I not in a prison.”
Henry took another step into the room. Dust motes cascaded from the ceiling. “I shall not be gone long, but I felt you should know.”
“Why?” Ewan rose from the bed. He came to his feet in wrinkled clothes that hung on his frame. “So I shall prevent the murder of myself until you return?”
“God forgive you for such words.”
“No, Brother.” Ewan stumbled forward. “God forgive you for killing her.”
“I would have died that day to prevent such a thing.”
“But you didn’t.”
Guilt thronged him. He turned to leave—
“Henry!” Ewan leaped forward and grasped his arm.
“Yes?”
“Why do you not let me die?”
“If you really wanted to, you would have found a way to do so by now. Nothing I can do would have stopped you.”
“Yes.” Panting, shaking again. “Yes, yes, I can if I want to. I can escape the prison and be with her … and there’s nothing you can do to stop us, not this time …”
“Let me go, Ewan.”
“But I cannot be with her yet.” The clutch on his arm finally loosened. “Not until I have watched you suffer for what you’ve done … for what you’ve done to both of us.”
Henry bolted from the room. He went for the stables and swung his saddle across Miss Staverley’s back. As if I haven’t suffered. From deep inside surged the pain, each stab accompanied with an image, a sound, something that drew him back to that night.
The bed was large. He shouldn’t have noticed she was gone, and it shouldn’t have mattered. It wasn’t as if he loved her. He had married out of social obligation. Lucy Pemberton was a sensible escape from the desperate mammas who plotted and connived to see their daughters well espoused.
And she had given him an heir. Perhaps that, more than anything, had softened the coldness of his heart. He had almost believed he cared for her. In some small, insignificant way, he had felt as if they were finally becoming one.
If only I had stayed in bed. Henry leaned his forehead against the saddle. Why didn’t I stay in bed?
He’d been foolish enough to think something had happened to her. He awoke Dunn first and sent him out of doors to check the grounds. Then he went to his brother’s chamber with the inane hope that Ewan would help him search for his missing wife.
“My lord?”
Miss Woodhart. He turned. “I am just leaving.”
“Is something wrong?”
She drew closer in her pretty blue dress, with a blooming color of roses on her cheeks. How lovely she was. If he could spend the rest of his life only looking upon her, he would be satisfied. He could not think of touching her, though. Not with his bloody hands.
“Dunn told me why you are departing.” A faint smile. “I find it most commendable.”
“There is nothing commendable about it.”
“A letter would have sufficed.”
“I met Collin in Wiltshire nearly seven years ago. He was fourteen when he left his parents to serve as my valet.”
“You must have been very close.”
“He was equally close to his parents. I cannot bear to deliver such news in a mere slip of paper. It would be a disgrace to them all.” He reached for Miss Staverley’s reins and pulled the animal toward the stable door. Fresh air swarmed his hot face. He mounted without looking at the woman in the doorway.
“I only wished to thank you for the Bible, my lord—and to make a small plea.”
“Ask what you will.”
“If there should be any room in your prayers, I thought you might say one for me.” A pause in which her eyes filled again. “That I might have the strength to believe.”
His breath caught. “You need not make such a request, Miss Woodhart, for you have had my prayers all along.”
Ella brushed her hand down the velvety cheek, then removed the bangs from his eyes. “You are very tired tonight, aren’t you?”
Peter shook his head, but his eyes drooped nonetheless. “When is Papa coming home?”
“Most any day now.”
“I miss him.”
“I wish someone would say prayers with me.”
Ella’s fingers stilled. “You say them quite nicely by yourself.”
“Can’t you say them with me? Just one time?”
“Peter, I—”
“Pray that Papa will come home soon? And pray I will be a good boy. Papa always prays that, and I try really hard.”
“And you do very well.” She dropped a kiss on his forehead. “I have never known a better little boy.”
A grin split his face, but a yawn was quick to replace it. “Please, Miss Woodhart?”
She couldn’t do such a thing. Not when the prayer would be forced from lies, and the praise ushered from a heart of unbelief.
Even so, she folded her hands. Hesitated. “God, return Lord Sedgewick home safely and quickly, for Peter misses him greatly.” She paused long enough to peek.
Peter’s eyes remained shut.
“And help Peter to be a good little boy.” And help me …
“Amen.” Peter nudged her. “Now you say amen.”
Her chest burned. “Amen.” Only it isn’t amen, because it wasn’t a prayer at all.
Something was wrong. Ella could tell by the way the pen marks were unsteady, the way Lucy’s words were scratched more deeply and with less effort. Should have known. Disaster. Terrible secret. What in the world was Lucy talking of?
Then the words struck with force: Henry shall never know the child is not his—and neither shall his brother.
Ella clapped her hand over her mouth. She slipped from the bed, approached the window, and pressed the diary against her chest. Peter is Ewan’s son?
Compassion writhed within her soul, a soul more empty than she’d ever realized. How could this be? Did Lord Sedgewick know? Had Lucy told him before she … before she was killed?
Didn’t make sense. Nothing did. There was so much hidden and so much she didn’t know and so much pain right here in her hands.
She slung the diary away from her and covered her face. Tears climbed her throat. What would it do to Peter if he ever found out the truth?
What would it do to Lord Sedgewick?